“Is that a marching band? Do you hear that?” Laurelyn looked out our 9th floor window of our hotel room. “Oh my goodness! It’s a parade! Get your shoes on. We’re going to a parade.”
I was catching a mid-afternoon snooze, actually, and I woke to the click of the hotel door closing.
I sat up groggily, leaning back on my elbows to survey the situation. My half-awake self realized the room was empty of my friends, and then I pieced together the conversation I thought had been a dream.
Oh! They went to see a parade? I can’t miss this!
I threw on a pair of shoes and raced out the door, eager to catch up. I followed the sound of the bass drums until I found my girls a couple of blocks down the street. Sure enough, a parade, right through the city streets of Portland.
“Trish! You know what Donald Miller and Bob Goff say: nobody’s allowed to watch! Get in there! Get in the parade!”
So I jumped in. I danced and clapped. There’s this bit of me that loves to join a loud, silly scene, and I’m beginning to find her again. So I joined the parade.
And that’s when I realized I’d never quite seen a parade like this one. What I thought was a marching band was actually a small tribe of people carrying drums and dancing in a circle. People were chanting and carrying placards. There was a long line of policemen on bicycles, all equipped with riot gear.
Would you look at this picture? Tarbled hair, wrinkled clothes, and one leg of my jeans tucked into my boots. I tumbled out of bed to march in a protest.
And I never even learned the cause.
But I did learn on the Portland News that there were some arrests and pepper spray a few blocks down. So, you know.
Guess I can cross that off my bucket list.
One man’s protest is another woman’s parade.